I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You
by theskysoblue
Summary: Sherlock is dead, and John is left to come to terms and rebuild his life without his one and only friend - who he never thought he would lose. But after all that hard work, Sherlock comes back - how will John take it? The fic is inspired by the lyrics of I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You by Colin Hay (covered by The Rocket Summer) because it screams John!Lock.
1. Coffee Mournings

For the first 8 days after the fall, John sat in his normal chair, facing the stark, empty one which Sherlock might occupy in the mornings after John would pour his coffee. On the first morning alone, whenever he looked down at his steaming drink, he could have swore that he saw the faint shadow of Sherlock sitting in the chair across from him, and he could have swore that he felt a presence slowly applying rosin to the bow of his violin. But when he looked up, he saw no such figure, so he continued to imagine that Sherlock was out on a case errand, all the while stuffing down the painful thought that he knew that wasn't true.

The next morning, and the 6 following, John took his stashed bottle of whiskey that Harry had given to him at Christmas – she said she didn't need it anymore, which was a lie – and poured a little in his coffee, increasing the amount as the days wore on. Getting a little buzzed for the day made it easier to think about the fact that Sherlock was gone: long, long gone, and he wouldn't be sitting in the leather seat across from him ever again. He thought about where his coffee was made from – on the label it said Ethiopia. _If only_, John thought, he could go to Ethiopia and retrieve Sherlock from amidst the hot sands, and _bring him back home._

No. Sherlock was farther away than a bus or a plane could ever take him, and yet Sherlock was still in London. But he wouldn't go visit him today. His memorial was just yesterday. Or was it the day before, or the one before that? It didn't matter, and he didn't care. His best friend left him, and now he had no more whiskey in his bottle. John thought that might be a sign, and resolved not to buy another bottle until he absolutely needed it. _Sherlock_ wouldn't have wanted him to get drunk – especially not over him. But _Sherlock_ wouldn't have had any emotions if it had been himself who had jumped off a building. _Sherlock_ didn't have emotions, so that's why it was so easy for him to jump off of the damn building in the first place. Was it so better that John lived, while his only friend died? _Sherlock_ had taken the liberty to decide that for both of them.

Now, not having a drink to soften his raging thoughts, John began to think about his circumstance for the first time. Real, raw, emotion overtook him for the first time, and unconsciously tears began to form and wouldn't stop. Somehow, he found himself on the floor kneeling at Sherlock's old leather chair, his head on the seat, clutching the piece of furniture while bathing it in tears he knew Sherlock could never have shed had the roles been reversed. How could he possibly believe he was really gone? In that moment, he knew he didn't want to be alive. It's not that he wanted to commit suicide, but rather he wished he could go into a state of non-being, until he could figure things out, like how to get Sherlock back, or how to forget he even existed so that he would never feel this pain again. He had thought Sherlock might have actually begun to care, for the first time in his life, about another person, but John had been wrong – _so_ wrong. No caring person would have died like this. Moriarty's words suddenly circled his head. _"That's what people DO!" _And then there were the questions about Moriarty that would never be answered, either. John hadn't noticed the coffee spilt all over his pants and the floor, but seizing the fallen coffee cup laying on floor, he threw it at the ground as hard as he could manage. He didn't hear Mrs. Hudson rushing up the stairs either, and he hadn't expected her to after earlier in the week when he had roared at her to leave him alone after she asked if he needed anything. He had faintly felt sorry for his outburst, but it was just after he finished his coffee and he felt comfortably numb. It wouldn't happen this time, and he was relieved when she called his name tentatively.

"John?"

John looked up at her, eyes swollen, red, and blank, and dropped his head back on the seat again, staring at the taunting yellow smiley face.

"Oh, John, dear! I heard your cup smash and I just had to come up even though you told me not to, but-" seeing she was safe from being yelled at, she rushed toward John, filled with pity. "Oh, John, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were in such a terrible state." She helped him up and they went and sat on the couch.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John wanted more than anything for it to be Sherlock he was talking to instead of her.

"Yes, John?"

John sighed, and rested his head on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder. "I've got to go."

"It's ok, dear. I understand." Mrs. Hudson put her arm around John, and after what seemed like hours, John finally got up to start packing his things.


	2. A Bit Better

"It's been 3 months since the fall. _His_ fall. I'm supposed to keep a journal of my daily activities.  
It's been exactly 3 months. It hurts, a lot, to think that I will never see him again, but I've accepted that. It gets better as time goes on, doesn't it? That's what people say. I don't know that I believe that.  
I bought a new brand of coffee today. The label says it's from Colombia. It's good, but different."

John had taken to seeing his old therapist again, the one who Mycroft had told him to get rid of. One of the few decent things Mycroft had ever said to John was to can the therapist, but John still went to her anyways. He partially did it to spite Mycroft, in a secret way. John loathed him now, after knowing that _he_ was responsible for Sherlock's death, in a round-about way. John had received a letter in the post from Mycroft a couple of months ago, and immediately seeing who it was from, ripped it up. About a week later, John was graced with a man under Mycroft's employment to hand-deliver another letter, and to apparently ensure that the letter was read. Reluctantly, John had read it and after getting through the unfeeling condolences, got to a part where Mycroft was saying that he knew John would be needing financial help, so he had taken the freedom to deposit 10 000 pounds into his bank account. "No thanks are necessary," it read, "I just want to help out the only person who meant something to my brother." John still wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock had cared about him, and the query plagued him. The money also didn't change his opinion of Mycroft.

Only 2 weeks ago had John found a temporary job. He was filling in for a receptionist on maternity leave at St. Bart's hospital in the orthopedic centre. Of _course_ it had to be the building where Sherlock jumped, but it was also the building where Molly worked – the _one_ other person who could relate to John and even _somewhat_ understand his emotions. However much he loved Mrs. Hudson, and hated knowing that she was alone at Baker Street now, he couldn't go back there yet. He had taken Mrs. Hudson out to lunch a month back at a café down the street, and he occasionally called her, but even those activities were difficult to do.

A couple of days after he started his job, he thought he'd give dating a cautious shot again, and asked a nice blonde named Lisa, who worked at the same desk, out for lunch. She, too, like most of London, recognized John and had visited his blog before, and knew about Sherlock. She didn't mention Sherlock until their break was almost over and they were hanging up their coats, but nonetheless she saw his eyes grow even more sad and grave, and didn't ask to go on another date. John wondered if he would ever be able to date a woman who didn't know Sherlock, and who had never mourned for him, or wished he would bustle about not saying a word to you about what he was doing, apart from "case work."

Yesterday, John couldn't say he was happy. But he couldn't say he was unhappy either. Tomorrow would be the same. Today, he couldn't go into work. He sat in his new, but tiny, flat, with a fresh bottle of whisky in hand and cane resting on the arm of his chair. It seemed that this was going to be the trend every month on this day; because it was the day he lost Sherlock for good.

John hadn't seen Molly before he started working at the hospital, but she seemed fine. Great, actually, and just like her normal self. He was glad to see that she was well, but then she didn't know Sherlock like John had. They went out to coffee at least once a week, and tried to avoid the unavoidable – Sherlock. Even a fleeting thought of Sherlock was a dull sinking in his heart, and he swore it stopped beating when he thought of his friend. But he was comforted by Molly and her optimism, and he was awfully glad to have her around. Still, even if they were actually friends now, there would still always be an ache in his heart named _Sherlock._


	3. I'm No Longer Moved to Drink Whisky

It was time to get real. It had been a _whole year_, and John sure as hell knew better. _For you, Sherlock, _he thought, as he walked down a darkened alley and smashed the half-empty whiskey bottle against the brick wall. Halfway to the bottom, he had realized that this wasn't the way he wanted to spend the rest of his life: getting drunk every time a certain day of the month came up so as to drown his pain. There was no way in hell that John wanted to become like his sister, even if he was already well on his way. The thought floated through his head that maybe Sherlock would have done drugs instead of drinking, like he had insinuated once. The bottle broke, and _truly_ moving on with his life began tonight.

The only thing he could think about doing in that moment was going to see Molly. Molly would understand, and be there for him, and help him. He decided to walk to her flat, which was about a 30 minute walk, so as to clear his head and hopefully sober up a bit before he saw her. Walking to her flat, John still saw what he saw with Sherlock: the battlefield, as that bloody sod Mycroft has said on their first encounter. After losing his way a couple of times because he was absent-mindedly thinking of places he had gone with Sherlock, John reached Molly's home. Knowing she lived on the ground level, he found it a good idea to go round to the back of the complex and knock on a window that had a light behind the white curtain. Molly cautiously drew back the large curtain and was equally startled as she was relieved at seeing John, waving at her.

She opened her window and said in an incredulous tone, "John, what are you doing here? And why aren't you at my front door?" John, still slightly intoxicated, thought that to continue with his good idea he should invite himself in by climbing through Molly's window.

"Jo- John! What on earth are you doing!? Are you … are you _drunk_?" He smiled at her, standing up after _falling_ through the window.

"How are you today – er – tonight, or this evening, Molly?" he stumbled out. Molly just stared, perplexed with a touch of mortification. "I was just hoping that we could … talk. You know, today, and well what today was, and kind of still is, and – "

"John, come, sit down," Molly interrupted him, "I'll make you a nice cuppa. Ok?"

"Sure, Molly, sounds great. Uh, was that ok of me to come through your window like that? I mean if not, I'm sorry, it seemed ok at the time … I'm just feeling reckless, you know? Like I'm going to start my life all over, now, again, because I decided that, Molly." He looked her right in the eye, "I swear to you. I'm going to be better, and move on. Not drink. Not succumb to _him_, and how _he_ made me feel. God, I miss him. I know you do, too. But Molly …" His words faltered, and he fell silent.

"John, here." She placed the tea in his hands. "John, I know how you feel. But you've been working through things with your therapist, right?" He stared at her. "Ok, well, maybe not. It takes time though, and no one is expecting you to be ok right away. Everyone grieves differently John, and how you feel is ok."

"How do you know how I feel?" He spat, a little too emotionally. "Molly, how do you know? I've been trying to figure that out for the past year, and I've made some progress, yeah, but I can't … I can't stop feeling this pain, this horrible, dull ache right in the centre of my chest whenever I think of him. How am I supposed to get over that, Molly?" Molly looked at him, unsure that she should say what she was thinking.

"John," she started out, "just think about your relationships with friends and family before you went away … to war. Who were you closest to?"

"He's dead. Knew each other from the first day we arrived at the base. But I could accept that, I mean, I always knew that was a possibility, and I'm ok with it now. But Sherlock …" A single tear fell onto his wrist.

"John, you know I liked Sherlock – well, he made that apparent to everyone that one Christmas," she smiled and rolled her eyes, "and I'm just thinking, um, that maybe you felt for him a bit more than, you know, a friend would. I mean, you lived with him, and knew all his habits and such. And I think maybe Sherlock felt the same way."

John took a long, slow drink of his tea. He wasn't quite sure how to retaliate against such a suggestion that those were his feelings he couldn't figure out. If Sherlock could still make him feel this way, after all this time, maybe there _was_ something to him – maybe, somehow, he really did have a heart, and he gave it to John. Maybe. And maybe it was time that John start to accept this. And maybe it was also time for John to realize that he, in turn, did the exact same thing.

Molly looked as though she were sitting on needles and John was going to say something terrible to her, but he only quietly replied, "Thank you, Molly Hooper." She sat, gaping, in her turn of not knowing what to say, only because John had said it with such surety, emotion, and resignation. Without another word he got up and left out the front door.

He now faced what he could never have on his own: he had feelings for Sherlock Holmes. _A fat load of good that'll do me now_, he thought to himself bitterly. Irene Adler had even told him that before, but there was no chance he would have took her words to heart when he was … _jealous _of her. He was _jealous_ of Irene Adler? He was always convinced he was being protective of Sherlock, but he had refused to confess it ran deeper than that.

"I'm not gay," he said aloud, "it's just you, Sherlock." He wasn't quite sure where his feet were taking him, even though his heart knew.

In the morning, a chubby guard found him huddled in front of a cold, black tombstone. He spoke nothing, but only held an expression that told John it would be best if he left soon.


	4. Not Alone

After spending his night with Sherlock, John went home and got a few peaceful hours of rest before his therapist appointment at 3:00. This time, he would actually give her what she wanted: he would go through the events of the days leading up to Sherlock's fall. He couldn't bear to do before now, though she had been asking him to do since the first session.

"John," he snapped his diverted attention back to her, "What would you want to say to Sherlock now, if he could hear you?"

"No. I can't tell you that. We're done here."

John called Mrs. Hudson, and asked her if she would accompany him to go see Sherlock again. She voiced that it was strange of him to be calling out of the blue, but she would be ready when the cab came. John needed her support, and he couldn't ask Molly since she was at work. Her presence would give him just enough courage to say what he needed to – to close his case with Sherlock.

Standing in front of the black marble, John didn't say that he liked or loved Sherlock, because hell, he had just found out yesterday that he was harboring feelings for Sherlock. But the words he did say were heavily weighted, and if Sherlock had heard them, he hoped that he would understand.

"So, are we ready to go?" John rejoined Mrs. Hudson, who had left him alone for privacy and waited at the cemetery gates for him.

John turned and scanned the field filled with random assortments of headstones, thinking about what lay underneath the grass. A man, far off to the right of where he had just come from caught his eye. John squinted his eyes and took a couple of steps forward, trying to discern whether his suspicion could be valid. His own words spun in his head now. _Sherlock, please … don't be dead_.

"John? What are you looking at?" He had gotten Mrs. Hudson looking now too, but the figure had gone behind some trees.

"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson. Let's go." John took her arm and led her out. He shrugged off the notion that the tall, dark haired figure with a long coat moved exactly like Sherlock did. This wasn't the first time he had imagined he saw Sherlock. He knew Sherlock wouldn't appear, but yet he kept searching for him, wearily, in every place he went. _It's a bloody graveyard_, he thought, _what did I expect?_

Not much had happened in the past year. In fact, very little had changed. John was still renting out the 221 B flat with the money Mycroft had so _generously_ given him, he still occasionally saw Mrs. Hudson, and he went out for coffee with Molly every Sunday. The receptionist at the orthopedic centre had come back, but John had found an opening in a walk-in office and was now a doctor there. The only great thing that had happened in the past year was that he had seen his sister, bitterly told her that he was stronger than she was for being able to refuse alcohol or any other substance to numb himself with, and after the encounter, found out she had checked herself into rehab. She said he had "inspired" her and made her realize she can "be better than this". He was glad for that, at least.

It had been too long since John had gone on a proper vacation. Even though he was only allowed 3 days off of work, he desperately needed it. He decided upon Edinburgh, a place he hadn't visited since he was a little boy with his family. He needed to be somewhere that reminded him of life before all of the hard things had come; all of the things that gave his face deep lines and a steely, emotionless expression.

_One, at the train station,_ he counted. _Two, on the castle grounds; three, passing outside the café beside the hotel._ Even here, Sherlock didn't leave him. _Four, a landscaper in Dean Gardens. _Even with all of the false sightings, John still enjoyed himself as best he could. There was even a dainty brunette he almost bought a drink for in a pub, but he was rusty and decided it was best not to get involved with someone who lived outside of London. _Five, a man in another compartment. _

John's trip was uneventful and relaxing. On the ride home, he thought of a time when his life was full of excitement and adventure, and how perhaps it was better to take it slower now. But he also thought that if Sherlock were to come through those compartment doors, he would take back that life full of spontaneity in a heartbeat.

The train from Edinburgh got back to London at 5:00 pm, Sunday night. It was still light out, but barely; it had been drizzling all day and the sky was a characteristically murky grey. John hailed a cab, and stared out the dripping window the entire time, imagining that Sherlock was at the other window, thinking about a case, or whatever he kept his mind busy with. He closed his eyes and sent his mind reeling with imaginings that Sherlock _had _indeed accompanied him to Edinburgh, because they had found each other on the platform where John had first believed he saw Sherlock. _No,_ he thought, _I have to stop this._ This is why John avoided taking cabs as much as possible. If there were things that he could do differently, things he hadn't done with Sherlock, he would do them to impede his suffering.

"Wait for me, would you? I'll only be a minute," he instructed the cabbie. He had made up his mind. He was tired of _thinking_ he saw ghosts – if he was going to see one, he would go where one would actually be: 221 B, Baker Street.

He picked out the key that was still on his keychain, and quietly eased the door open. It gave its usual concise squeak, and he hoped that wouldn't be loud enough for Mrs. Hudson to hear. He closed the door silently, and stared up at the ominous stairs: almost every one squeaked or groaned in some spot. Carefully, John edged up the side of the stairs so as to not maximize such unnecessary outbursts often originating from the centre, and most worn, area of each step. It was almost painstaking, but John made it up the landing successfully without much sound. He let out a quick sigh of relief as he looked down on his first triumph, and noticed his hand was shaking. There was no point in trying to calm it, so he stuffed it in his left pocket, and taking a deep breath, gingerly turned the knob of the door that led into the rooms of 221 B.

The light layer of dust that had formed on the floor stirred with the slow opening of the door. John looked around, half aware that he was looking for evidence that something – anything – had been disturbed. He remembered the day that he left his broken coffee mug hadn't been cleaned up, but he figured Mrs. Hudson had done that for him. He chuckled to himself, thinking of all the times she protested she was "not your housekeeper," even though she had continually cleaned up after them and brought them food or drink when necessary. John was apprehensive about entering and disturbing anything – but why? He pondered that for a second, but couldn't come up with a decent reason why – apart from having to deal with dust wherever he went – so he entered and shut the door.

_Home,_ he thought, _but not quite._ He ambled around, like he was a stranger examining another's home for the first time, not daring to touch anything. It wasn't for long that he couldn't help himself and he started tidying the kitchen. It was a _mess_, but he, too, had been a mess in the last few days of his residence. He cleared the island a bit, and put some items in the sink with the intention of dealing with them later. He made his way back into the living room, and slumped into his old chair, placing his head in his hands. Sitting up, he gave another heavy sigh.

"Sherlock," John verbalized in a voice that was louder than he expected, but with the same hopeless weariness he had grown accustomed to hearing. John had not anticipated on receiving a reply; it was more of a plea for his sanity and to solidify a certain everlasting solitude. John looked over to the skull sitting on the mantel of the fireplace, and was possessed to go and pick it up.

"So …" The skull gave no reply. "Hm, a bit like those gravediggers in _Hamlet_ now, aren't I? Talking to a skull. "Old Yorrick". Did Sherlock even have a name for you?" The skull looked at him the same way it had always looked at Sherlock, and still kept its peace. "I can start to understand now why he liked talking to you," and placed it back on the mantel.

He now stared at himself in the mirror, searching for any discrepancies within his face and eyes, like if he stared long enough he would find a key to something else hidden away – but he had no idea what. He remembered one of the last times he used the mirror, just before Moriarty's trial. He had been knotting his tie, and Sherlock had been pacing around behind him. Once, their eyes met via the mirror, just for a second that seemed like a short eternity. John's heart quickened at the memory and he noticed his pupils slightly dilate and then return to regular dimensions. Finally breaking his staring contest, he glanced down at his hands which were resting on the mantel – but just as he glanced down he saw Sherlock, intensely watching him the same way he had done the day of the trial – and swiftly glanced back up, only to find that he was still very alone. He had seen his ghost, and faced his demons, and now a little seed was planted in his mind that gradually grew over the next few days: he wanted – no, _longed_ – to be back at Baker Street.

John lay down to rest on the sofa. It was nearly 8:00 by now, not early enough to sleep, but John slowly drifted off anyway. In one of his rare dreams, John dreamt that Sherlock was laughing, and smiling, and his face flitted by as though he were separated from John by a sheer white curtain. Early next morning, John snuck out just as quietly as he came, and for the first time in too long, went to work happy.


	5. Forget Me Not

Mrs. Hudson had offered to help cleaning up and dusting the flat, but John had outright refused. It was his responsibility, for one, but he also didn't want Mrs. Hudson's bustling to ruin the sort of sanctification of the place John had built up in his mind. It was clear that she was elated to have him back, for she offered him tea each time he arrived back from work and started to clean. He devoted his evenings to cleaning for 5 days, of which he had cleaned most of the flat from top to bottom: apart from Sherlock's room. The door still remained shut, with a likely meticulous room preserved behind it. Besides, there was no need to open it. If, for some reason, he needed to know the atomic number of rubidium, he would take the effort to open his laptop and look it up – instead of looking behind Sherlock's door.

John's sleeps weren't graced with any more visages of Sherlock, which he was disappointed about. The one thing that seemed to be looking up in his life was Molly: at their Sunday coffee date, he had asked her if she wanted to come over to the flat and have dinner. He figured it was a safe proposition, since she had only been over once before and would not have poignant memories of the place. John was caught as much off-guard at actually asking the question as Molly was receiving it, but she graciously accepted and did not make things awkward, to John's relief.

That Sunday evening, Molly appeared at the door to the flat wearing a knee-length evergreen skirt and a tucked-in black and white striped chiffon top with an unbuttoned smoke grey jacket over top. Her hair was tied up in a perfectly coiffed ponytail, and she has little gold earrings dangling from her lobes. When John saw her, he was rendered speechless for a moment before saying hello, because he couldn't help but notice how beautiful she looked even if she was purposely trying to be understated. If he had not been so distracted by her, he would have sent a silent curse to Sherlock for still making him notice certain things about people – in Molly's instance, he could tell she had attempted the fine balance between looking unintentional with wanting to be elegant for the unusual occasion.

"Uh, you look great, Molly," he stumbled out. "Is that a new skirt?"

"What? Oh, yeah, I just bought it this afternoon. Thanks," she coyly replied.

"So I have everything set out, I was figuring we should eat now," John said with false confidence, motioning to the already set table.

"Yeah, that would be great." Molly walked to a dinner table set with a centrepiece of a single white candle with a tossed salad, warm garlic bread, chicken parmesan and wine set out around it.

"Sorry it's not extravagant," John rambled, "but I wasn't quite sure what you liked, and to be honest, I wasn't planning on asking you over for dinner tonight. But I'm glad I did." Molly beamed at him. A few months back, Molly had been going on about her favourite foods for some reason or another, and had mentioned that she adores "chicken parmesan – but only if it's loaded with freshly grated parmesan," and thought that "garlic bread is a gift from the heavens." John had kept the ingredients on hand that week in case he did happen to be courageous enough to ask Molly over. _She's just a friend,_ he assured himself, _she'd only be coming over for a friendly supper – no need to get worked up. _

John was nervous about making a recipe he had never tried before, but to his immense relief, both he and Molly were delighted with it. Their conversation was as easy as it was to pour glass after glass of the well-aged wine, which they finished off in 2 hours. Immersed in conversation, John took the empty bottle as an excuse to clear off the table. Finding the wooden dining chairs increasingly uncomfortable, they moved to the sofa, and to lighter subjects.

"I remember a time when I was a waiter, I must have been 18 or 19 and going to school – medical school – at the time, and I was waiting this table with 2 women at it. I don't really remember a whole lot about my time at the restaurant, Café something-or-other – I don't remember the name – but this one experience. So, these 'ladies' were in having lunch, and one was ordering a dessert. I'll tell you now, they didn't seem like the friendliest lot, but then again most people weren't. So the one woman had ordered warm cherry pie a la mode, and it started with her not being happy with the time it took her to get it. A couple seconds too long, I guess. I leave, and then a minute later she calls me back to the table in a rather loud voice, and she had an expression of disgust on her face. She says to me, "Uh, listen here bloke, you know that there's a _bug_ in this pie?" and she points to the pie, and I really don't see anything except cherries and the goo that goes in the pie, but I offer to get her another piece anyway. But instead, she starts raving on about how it wasn't warm enough and how she thought she had already eaten a bug 'cause she felt something crunchy, and she's worked herself up and is positively freaking out. I'm trying to be calm, but then – God, ha, she stands up, with the plate in hand, and rubs it in my face. _Thoroughly_. I just stand there, don't have a _clue_ what to say or do, and then they just walk out. And I'm thinking, Blimey, what the hell is stuck up your ass, miss? Yeah, you laugh Molly, but it wasn't funny at the time. It wasn't, at all! My – my ego was _hurt_!" By now the two of them are roaring with laughter, and while they're still calming down Molly immediately jumps on to a funny story of hers.

They take turns telling funny or ridiculous stories of things that have happened to them or someone they knew for hours, until Molly finally notices that it's been dark out for a while, and checks the time.

"_Eleven_ twenty-_three!"_ she exclaims. "I would've had my evening tea and been in bed an hour ago, already!" she giggled in her shock.

"Well, I bess – I mean I guess we better get you home then, right?" John stares at her with a look she hasn't seen before, and can't decipher.

"Yeah, I guess. If you were thinking of riding me home in the cab –," she blushed, "no, I mean riding in the _cab_, to my _home_, with me, um, you really don't have to. I'm ok." They were now standing face to face in close proximity of one another, and John raised his eyebrow in a weak protest.

"Fine," he conceded, "I'll just make sure you get into your cab safely, how about that? We don't want you getting in with a mad cabbie, now, do we? London seems to be full of them."

"No, we don't." Neither of them moved, but searched each other's faces, watching to see if there was a sudden muscle movement that would indicate that they both wanted the same thing. John, throwing any caution to the wind, launched himself a bit too forcefully at Molly's soft pink lips. They settled into a tender kiss – as tender as two intoxicated adults can get. John pulled her closer, holding her in a kissing embrace, allowing his hands to finally feel her shape; feeling like they were locked in a glass case protected from time. But John couldn't keep the blissful moment for long; his mind started to think for the first time that evening: to think about the fact it was _Molly_ he was kissing; think about whether it was wrong, even though it felt so _right_; think about whether she truly liked him or whether it was just the expensive wine; and regrettably, think about his unrequited emotional attachment to Sherlock – something he may never resolve. He broke away from her, hoping she couldn't read his troubled thoughts on his face.

"That was ... nice." Molly seemed at a loss for words, none the wiser, and John half hoped she would forget about it or deem it a drunken mistake the next day. But for now she gazed at him with unfocused eyes, and John went around her and reached for her jacket, helping her into it, unable to face her any more. He took her arm and helped her down the stairs and out onto the curb.

"I just want to say that I quite enjoyed myself tonight. Thank you."

John managed an earnest smile and replied, "Yeah, I did too." He hailed a cab, and they said their goodnights. John was a flurry of emotions, and decided it best to simply go to bed, where his head would be clearer in the morning. Something inside of him felt like he was betraying Sherlock by moving on with Molly, even though he had grown to have some romantic feelings for her. _No, stop thinking. Sleep,_ he ordered himself. For being a captain, he couldn't follow his commands well at all. The last time he glanced at the clock, it was 3:11, and resolved not to look at it any more. He didn't know how long he had lay in bed awake after that; all he knew is that his 7:00 alarm came too early. He groggily scolded himself for being such a teenage boy on the matter while clumsily trying to dress, still half asleep.

Molly called on Tuesday, asking if John would like to have dinner with her again. He made up a quick lie saying that he was going to visit Harriet that night, and sorry, he couldn't back out of it. Molly sounded a bit dejected, but John reassured her that they would definitely have lunch on Sunday, and maybe even tea too. He knew he would need as many days as he could before facing her again.

John knew things would be so different if Sherlock were alive. He might not be having these guilty feelings, or they might even be worse. Or, he might not have any feelings for Molly at all. He would have to tell her that if they were to have a romantic relationship, he would need to take things slow. He hoped she would understand without having to spell _Sherlock_ out for her. After all, she was the one who recognized his feelings for his flatmate and helped him recognize them, too.

Saturday evening, John placed forget-me-nots on Sherlock's grave, resolute to not let a dead man enter his mind when he was spending time with Molly.


	6. Ebb and Flow

John tried for a whole month. He really, honestly tried. This was the first time in so long that he could truly see himself being with someone … for _more_ than a month. He could feel them edging closer to each other, except there was always a thin, transparent wall in front of him. He could easily forget about and ignore it, but if he went to reach out he caught himself unable to complete the motion. He hated it it more than anything, as he desperately wanted to move on. But his heart told him a firm _no._

The wall had a name, just like the emptiness in his heart. It was _unmistakable. _The name was a bridge that had burnt long before he had ever seen it; back when he first knelt on the pavement outside St. Bart's. He had let _a man_ seize control of his heart and he let him continue to constrict it long after he had gone, which seemed so backwards to everything he had thought and known about himself. The worst part of this – the _absolute _worst part – was Molly. Molly was the one he had to let down and let go, to demote their status to "friends", because it wasn't fair to her that he couldn't really connect and that Sherlock never left the back of his mind.

Alarm at 7:00 am, get out of bed, and get dressed for work. Make the coffee and toast the bread or bagel; drink and eat them. Leave Baker Street by 7:35 so that arrival is approximately 8 minutes before the clinic officially opens and the first patient comes in; 10 minutes if it's fast walking. Lunch is from 11:30 to 12:00. Last patient of the day comes in around 4:53, and hopefully time of departure is 5:10. Arrive home around 5:35, and either make supper or go out to eat at the restaurant a block away. Fill time with things; meaningless things that vary from day to day but somehow manage to pass the time. 8:00, possibly make preparations for lunch and/or supper the next day. 9:00 pm, go to bed. Consistently, John's days passed like this, with minute deviations here and there. However flat and boring his life had evolved into, he still tried to enjoy moments here and there. His patients seemed to like him, as he chose not to be cold but instead friendly and sometimes joking. On the weekends he visited family and still had coffee with Molly on Sunday mornings, and he also found himself roaming through all the shops of London, taking time to see what it had to offer besides its monuments and hustle and bustle. But regardless, there was always loneliness and dissatisfaction eating away at him in the moments in between preoccupation.

Months which could have been decades wore on, and John fought on. He was determined – stubborn, even – to make a good life for himself. Each day he reaffirmed to himself that _Sherlock was a spark in my life, and now I've got to make the fire. _He cringed at the sentence the first time he created it; it was dripping with "cliché" and sounded like something he might have written in an e-mail to one of his ex-girlfriends years ago. However cliché, it was a good metaphor to try and convince himself he was doing right. He would not allow the newfound monotony of his life to get the best of what he could still be.

In the past 3 years, John had not gone more than a month without thinking he saw Sherlock. It had always been the same type of man he had mistaken Sherlock for: tall, fair, and dark haired. But in the past week or so, there was a man who had caught his eye who _hadn't_ been like the others. Thrice, he had seen a tall man wearing a long dark blue trench coat who had hair just like Sherlock had – except it was strawberry blonde. The man had only ever been walking away from John, so he had never even got a partial profile of his face. John thought this man was a bit more curious than all the others he had seen – seeing as this was the first one who reminded him of Sherlock without coffee bean-coloured hair. Still, John didn't think much of it; he had only been intrigued for a second.

Saturday afternoon, John had gone out into downtown to buy some tea. He had narrowed it down to two shops he had recently found, and couldn't decide which one to buy the tea from, seeing as they were both expensive shops. He almost had an internal row with the teas on his way to the first shop, but in the end, decided on one tea from each. Even though he felt a bit weighted down by the small bags in his hand, John enjoyed one of the rare sunny days of London as he sauntered back home. He noticed the old buildings, smiling, and thought about how the good weather somehow made him feel at peace and complete, if only for today. Almost resentful to have to go inside, John unlocked his door and bounced up his stairs. He got out his keys to unlock the door to the flat, only to find that he locked his door instead. _Hm, _he mused, _must have forgotten to lock it. _Thinking nothing of it, he burst through the unlocked door, froze, and dropped his bags.

What was obviously an apparition sat in the chair facing the door; Sherlock's chair. An apparition with its fingertips lightly pressed together, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, and an expression of expectancy upon its face. John stood gaping, dumbfounded, and unable to speak a word.

"Hello, John," the imposter spoke in the same deep and suave voice that Sherlock had. "You didn't think I'd leave you forever, did you?"

John looked straight into the tantalizing oceanic eyes that went from blue to green. There was a truth and vitality within them that said yes, indeed, Sherlock had come back from the dead. His entire body went to mush, starting at his head, then his throat, to his heart, his knees, and finally ending at his feet, where he was unable to stand anymore and fainted to the floor with a _thud_ so alarming that even Sherlock was mildly concerned John may be hurt.


	7. Human

John came to, and before opening his eyes, recognized that his head was on something softer than the floor_. Mrs. Hudson?_ he thought in his confusion.

_John, John can you hear me?_ a masculine voice was saying that was all too familiar, but one he couldn't place at the same time. _John!_ Its voice was rising. John opened his eyes deliberately. Unfocused, he found and locked onto the piercing blue-green lights among a pale profile with dark and shaking edges. Gradually, he started to remember what had just happened – and why his head might be resting on this man's lap.

"Sherlock, you – you can't be alive … you're _dead_," John muttered. He sat up and found that the top left portion of his head was throbbing, and winced in pain.

Sherlock was standing now, attempting to say indifferently, "I was almost concerned that we wouldn't be reunited after all." He was pacing, and even though John was still recovering, he could tell that there were hints of emotion and relief being suppressed in every word.

"Yeah, listen, this is all very convincing, so good job to whoever decided this would be a fun joke, but did you _actually_ think I would believe Sherlock Holmes had come back from the dead? Not even _he_ was that clever." Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John on the floor, his face suddenly absent of any relief he might have had, and his eyes made so dejected that even sorrow would have befell the devil.

"Ice. You need ice, right? I'll get some." Sherlock swiftly walked into the kitchen to gather some ice from the freezer. "And maybe a cuppa? I'll put the kettle on. How about we try one of the new teas you bought today?" John was still entirely confused, but moved himself up to his chair and let the strange man take care of him. "Here." Sherlock handed John ice wrapped in a towel with an expression searching for approval. As Sherlock sat across from him, John thought of how unmistakably 'Sherlock' this man was, and knew in his heart to accept the stranger as Sherlock, even if his head didn't agree.

"How?" John asked plainly. "How the _hell _aren't you dead?"

"That's a complex question John. Suffice it to say I had a lot of help."

"Right. Good. Now that we've established that you're alive due to 'a lot of help', mind telling me why the hell it took you _three years_ to come back?" John was getting emotional, and Sherlock started to move into a defensive position. "You thought it was fine to leave your friend for three years, to mourn for you – oh, wait, I'm sorry, _flatmate._ 'Cause it's not like a friend to go and commit fake suicide, all the while making his 'friend' believe that he's really dead!"

"John, calm down. I can understand that you're angry at me, I'm ang-"

"Angry, Sherlock? No. I'm _hurt_. I thought you cared about me, but that was stupid of me to think that. Everyone was always telling me you didn't have a heart. Did I listen? And oh yeah, I'm furious. But why should I be? I should have expected this, right?" John was standing now, expressing himself through violent gestures. Sherlock rose opposite to him, careful to be clear of the waving arms.

"No, John. I am sorry. But if you would hear me out, I can explain how it was necessary for me to enact such actions. I had hoped it wouldn't have taken this long."

"Necessary?" John paused. "_Sorry_ doesn't cut it, Sherlock." John swaggered up to Sherlock with all the authority the captain could muster, and socked Sherlock across the jaw _hard_. Sherlock almost hit the floor, but caught himself and straightened in time for a repetition on the other side, from which he didn't recoil as effortlessly. Sherlock stood level again, locked in a stare with John. John visibly looked hurt, with his eyebrows drawn together, but he was searching Sherlock's face as he would have searched a soldier's who had done him wrong. Half expecting it, Sherlock received another punch across his right cheek, so full of force, he fell to the floor.

"Finished, John?" a quiet and shaking voice said from the floor. He slowly stood up, hand to his cheek, head low, and shoulders slumped. John stepped back and looked at Sherlock again, and saw that his whole body was disconsolate and remorseful; the 3 years had been as long-suffering as it was for himself – if not more so for Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John sighed, his face now soft with understanding. His eyes met with those of an apologetic boy's, and John was taken aback by how _human_ Sherlock looked now. John found his feet shuffling towards the downtrodden man, arms opening to do what he had wanted to the moment he saw Sherlock in the chair. John solidly embraced Sherlock, and Sherlock offered no coldness or hesitation in returning it and wrapping his arms around John.

"John," Sherlock breathed, his voice cracking. They stayed like that, with John's head resting on Sherlock's chest, until it became uncomfortable to be standing any longer. Both of them sensing their own and each other's discomfort, they started to pull apart before Sherlock held John tight again and kissed the top of his head. John never felt more loved or more wanted, and knew that his love for Sherlock was unrequited no more.

"Sherlock," John admitted hoarsely, pulling away. "I'm glad you're back." Sherlock smiled at him. "You don't know how much I wished I would come home and I would find you sitting in your chair, or doing some bloody chemistry experiment in the kitchen. For being such a pompous idiot, _God_, I missed you. But you still haven't told me why you were gone for so long. Well, obviously because of Moriarty, but he died up on the roof … so why _this_ long?"

"He wove a massive and intricate web. I needed to isolate and extinguish his little virulent sparks he created. Most of it could be done from here in England, but I did need to do some travelling for certain things. It took time before I could be sure that I had succeeded and exhausted every possible path … and to make sure that we would all be safe." He stared out the window to avoid eye contact with John, and to hide any emotion his face might fleetingly betray.

"Well," John yielded, "I'm glad you did that. Even though you could have _at least_ let me know you were alive!"

"No, John! Anyone who knew would have been in danger and would have put me in danger if they were found out!"

"Obviously _someone _had to have known you faked it if you had 'a lot of help', right?"

Sherlock scolded himself. "Yes."

"Who, then? Someone you knew and could trust. Mycroft? Who else?"

"No, not Mycroft." Sherlock looked at his hands and the floor, avoiding looking at John.

"Sherlock. _Who_. Tell me," John pleaded in such a demanding voice that Sherlock could not refuse.

"Molly." He continued on hurriedly, " I asked her to keep quiet and I knew she would because she is the only trustworthy person who would be able to keep their mouth shut and emotions in control," he finished sharply.

John slumped against the wall and stared off. "She knew all along," was all he said.

"Yes. She did."

John covered his face with his hands. All of the time that they had spent together, when he told her how he wished Sherlock wasn't dead - and the time when he arrived through her window all torn up about Sherlock and she straightened him out. _All those times. _He started to get angry at Molly, now, but he couldn't - she had only been keeping her word not to betray Sherlock and protect him. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair, the way it had turned out.

Hands still covering his face, he thought aloud, "It's not fair." It was the only thought circling his mind, however childlike it sounded.

"I can see why you would view it as such," Sherlock said.

John's hands, he realized, were a bit sore from the abuse he had given them. _They'll hurt even worse later_, he thought. It would take a while to forgive and understand Sherlock completely, and John knew he couldn't be holding in any residual anger in order to do that. And this? This had rekindled it. It may have been misplaced and with no logical justification behind it, but it didn't matter. Even after the short beating Sherlock had received, he still didn't look hurt enough. John dropped his hands to his sides, and took a moment to decide where best to get him where it hurt. He was going to relish it this time.

John took a step forward off the wall, and stopped. Sherlock was facing him, opposite, in the clearing between the chairs and the sofa. With a hint of malice in his eyes, John suddenly lunged at Sherlock's stomach the way he had been taught in rugby so long ago, with well-focused force that knocked them both flat on the ground. Sherlock, clearly not expecting such a violent outburst, had the wind knocked out of him and lay gaping and gasping for air on the floor. Satisfied, John stood up and looked down on his friend. _Friend ... Sherlock is my Goddamn friend!_ John let out a remorseful moan.

"Sherlock, I - I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have ... I just ... " He couldn't finish. He felt guilty and foolish for being so cruel. _Once was enough_.

"No, John. It's ok," Sherlock gasped, his breath not yet fully recovered.

"Sherlock, no. _It's not. _It's just ... things will be so different now - now that you're back. And - and what do I do to show that I'm glad you're back? I hurt you. I don't want any more of that - for either of us. We were both wrong - don't look at me like that, like you think you're a god who can do no wrong! You're a bloody prat, you must know by now. But I forgive you, Sherlock, I always have, because I -" he stopped; he didn't know if he could really tell all and give into his longing to let his heart be fully open to the one person who meant so much. He had fantasized about this moment for too long, but didn't know if he had the courage after all.

"Because you what, John?" Never before would John have dared to dream of discussing their relationship - the closest they had gotten was when Sherlock admitted John was his only friend. Nothing more _needed_ to be said. But Sherlock had openly displayed what John hardly thought him capable of ever again - raw emotion. Sherlock hadn't been afraid to use words and action to imply his feelings. He wasn't the same man, and that made all the difference.

"I ... love you." Sherlock furrowed his brows, seemingly unable to understand the phrase once directed at him. "I mean that I love you as a friend, like no other friend I've had before, or will have. And in a way I could never quite get with any of the girlfriends I've ever had. It's just a way that's unique from anything else that I've experienced. So, um, yeah."

Sherlock silently contemplated this for a minute before finally saying "I understand," and giving John a tender look that thereby released him of his ephemeral stasis.

"Thank you," John said almost silently, even though the words echoed around the room. John slowly made his way to his chair while Sherlock stared out the window. A sort of calm, like after a windy downpour ,overtook the space where the minutes that passed did not matter and were not noted. After an indefinite amount of time, John found himself staring at Sherlock and taking in his very physical being, lazily still trying to make his mind believe that this was real, even though his heart had already told him so. Sherlock finally turned around, a faint smile on his lips. The oceanic eyes met its sky blue companion's in an assuring gaze, and finally, they felt like they were home.


End file.
